I saw a poet the other day
Just sitting with his muse
He said he's getting too old to write
So he gave her to me to use

She was filled with inspiration
But mostly filled with tears
She missed the poet she used to inspire
She was his for sixty-five years

I tried to write a poem that day
But the words came out all wrong
My muse was always distracted
She'd been with him so long

Again, I passed my poet friend
Just sitting on the street
He looked like he lost the love of his life
He was tired and wouldn't eat

I told him I couldn't use his muse
She was his to do as he will
That old man began to smile
As he dusted off his quill